Trace of Fever

Priss shook her head. “I’m not worried about that.” They went up the metal stairs, precariously attached to the structure.

After muttering a rude sound, Trace said, “There’s a lot you should be worried about, but aren’t.”

No reason to debate it with him. Her options on what to worry about, and what to ignore, were pretty damned limited. “This way.”

The ancient run-down house had been reworked in better years to accommodate four separate tenants. She was on the back corner, facing the bar.

Trace nodded toward the rowdy establishment. “It fired up early.”

“My understanding is that it opens with lunch and is going pretty strong by early dinner. It won’t bother me. I’m used to that type of noise.”

Trace gave her a long look, but Priss refused to meet his probing gaze.

Using the key, she unlocked the dead bolt and then the door lock. “Careful now.”

“Careful of what?” Trace asked.

They stepped in and before she could turn on a light, a low growl sounded. Behind her, Trace froze.

But not for long.

Somehow, before she even knew it, Priss found herself behind Trace, pressed to the wall. When she realized he’d pulled his gun, she smacked his shoulder. “Don’t you dare shoot my cat!”

His confusion was palpable. “Cat?”

“Yes, as in a pet.” Priss stepped away from him and found a lamp. Though she’d checked in days before contacting Murray, she wasn’t yet entirely accustomed to the space. She fumbled for a moment before getting the light on.

Liger, her enormous kitty, came over to her and rubbed his head against her shin. Priss knelt down to hug him, to stroke along his broad back. She got a throaty purr in response.

Gun now hanging limp at his side, Trace stared at her. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Put away your gun, Trace.” She dropped to her butt on the floor and let Liger crawl into her lap. Because he was twenty-three pounds of solid love, he overflowed in every direction. Priss laughed as he ran the edge of his teeth along her knee, then rolled to his back.

“Good God. That’s a domestic cat? Really? I’ve never seen one so big.”

“He’s a Maine coon. They’re naturally large.”

“You’re telling me that’s a normal size?”

“For the males, yeah. I found him at a shelter a few years ago. Isn’t he beautiful?”

“Actually …” Trace holstered the gun and hunkered down beside her. “Yeah. He is.”

For whatever reason, that surprised Priss. “You like animals?”

“Sure.” He held out a hand to Liger. “Is he friendly?”

Priss rubbed her nose against the cat’s neck. “Very. He’s also really smart. He’s a big lover boy, aren’t you, Liger?”

The cat watched Trace, then put a giant paw on his thigh. He let out another snarl, making Trace go still.

“That’s just his way of checking you out. He won’t bite,” Priss assured him. “I mean, he will, but not unless you were doing something you shouldn’t.”

“He has his claws?”

Priss glared. “Of course he does. Declawing is cruel!”

Trace paid no attention to her affront. He stroked the cat and Liger closed his eyes in bliss. “He has a tail like a raccoon.”

“I know.”

“What did you call him?”

“Liger.” She hugged the cat again. “Because of his lionlike ruff, and his stripes.”

“He’s the wrong color.”

True. Being mostly black with gray and white stripes, Liger didn’t resemble a lion or a tiger. “I was going by size and that great roar of his.”

The cat abandoned her to crawl up on Trace’s lap, then stretched up to sniff his face. Trace grinned, petting Liger and rubbing under his chin. “He really is a nice guy, isn’t he?”

“He’s wonderful. Maine coons are like big affectionate dogs. They enjoy attention and have, for the most part, very gentle natures.”

“For the most part?”

“He detests bugs and can get pretty vicious with them.”

Trace laughed at that mental image, but then sobered. “I hate to tell you this, but he’s going to be a big problem.”

Priss froze. “What are you talking about?”

“Sorry, honey, but he has to go.”

CHAPTER FIVE

SNATCHING THE GIANT cat away from him, Priss held him protectively.

With his chin tucked into the longer hair on his chest, Liger continued to purr.

Priss looked equal parts alarmed, furious and defensive. “Listen to me,” Trace said …”

“No, you listen.” It was the darkest, coldest tone he’d heard from her. “If you touch one finger to my cat, I’ll …”

She didn’t finish the threat, unable to think of anything dire enough.

Rolling his eyes, Trace rose back to his feet and surveyed her apartment. It was clean but ragtag, spare beyond measure, and in no way secure. “I’m trying to make sure the cat stays safe. Anything or anyone that can be used against you is in danger. That’s why I asked you if you were involved with anyone else in any way.”

“Oh.”